At long last, it’s a beautiful day. Seven in the morning and the mercury is already near forty; the wind, for once, is still. And while the pollen and dust haze remains visible beneath the glare of the rising sun over the eastern peaks, to the south and west and even north, the air is clear as glass.
It has been a long time since we have had such a view of the world around us.
Such days, and the comforting warmth they portend, give immediate birth to a new nostalgia, one that recalls childhood play in the green grass of summer, but also nearer memories of work in the fields. It’s hard work, but rewarding, and much as we might complain about it while we’re doing it, it has been a much harder thing to be denied the opportunity by forces beyond our control.
Despite the arid clarity of this day, it births hope, too, unbidden and reckless — the hope that we might see a weakening of this drought’s death grip, sufficient to permit planting and growth and harvest.
Hope for an actual rainy season.
In some traditional ways, rain is often a feminine spirit. There are those cultures where the harsh and battering rains of the monsoonal cloudburst are viewed as decidedly masculine, but I would not be surprised to find that many, perhaps most, of our cultures that understand elemental spirits in such ways tend to think of water generally as female, or at least as feminine (the two are decidedly not synonymous, and it was in fact my own people who created the name of two-spirit, for identities that fall outside colonial gender binaries).
But it occurs to me that the rain has another analogue, one that is without, or at least not identified according to, gender: Stories. Or more accurately, the reverse is true: Traditional stories are like the rain, watering the scattered seeds of language and culture and tradition and knowledge in the minds and spirits of our children, nurturing them, encouraging them to grow and coaxing them into the light. Our elders tell us stories that explain our world, grounding us in its essential truths: stories of the water, of the earth and sky.
Today’s featured works are essentially Pueblo works that manifest this tradition, three small figurative pieces known as “storytellers.” In this case, all three feature feminine adults, grandmothers, each with two or three small children in her arms and on her lap, listening to the words she shares with them. All three are found in the Other Artists: Sculpture gallery here on the site. We begin, unusually, with one of the smaller two figurative works, with its vibrant and stormy desert shades, traditional dress in the colors of the high desert during the summer rains. From its description:
This tiny storyteller figure fits in the palm of your hand. Created by Aaron Mirabal (Taos Pueblo), it consists of Grandmother with two children in her arms. All “wear” traditional dress, but grandmother herself also wears her hair in Hopi fashion, in two large butterfly rolls, a feature that is one of Aaron’s trademarks. Figure stands 2-3/8″ high (dimensions approximate).
Micaceous clay; paint
$75 + shipping, handling, and insurance
Of the three, this one is my favorite, despite its small stature. The tiny figures’ traditional clothing is painted in the brightest of jewel tones, turquoise and violet to contrast with the more usual black and white. Even the grandmother’s butterfly rolls, the buns on either side of her hair, and wound with turquoise ribbons, an old style reminiscent of the ribbons plaited through long braids (itself an equally old traditional hairstyle). And in the bare, unpainted spaces of face and hands, the mica in the clay shines through clearly, giving all three figures in the work a subtle glow.
The second of the two smaller figures is dressed in the colors of a sunny summer sky, all turquoise expanse and fluffy white clouds. We have very nearly such a sky this morning, albeit only the blue; there is not a cloud in sight . . . yet. If this day stays true to early monsoonal patterns, though, the sky will be studded with white by late morning, and by afternoon the color proportion will be inverted, as is the case with this work. From its description:
It’s a storyteller figure sized to fit in the palm of your hand (or take her place on a shelf or mantel), coaxed from local micaceous clay by Aaron Mirabal (Taos Pueblo). Grandmother holds two children on her lap as she passes down the old stories and lessons to them. All “wear” matching traditional dress; Grandmother’s hair is coiled into two butterfly rolls, Hopi-fashion, in what has become Aaron’s trademark style. Figure stands 2-3/8″ high (dimensions approximate).
Micaceous clay
$75 + shipping, handling, and insurance
The detailing on these tiny pieces is a perfect facsimile of Aaron’s slightly larger works: fewer grandchildren, but the same meticulous attention to the small cultural elements that hold true: split sleeves and sashes, buttons on high moccasins with white soles. Each pottery artist who specializes in storytellers possesses a distinctly personal style, one that makes their work instantly identifiable by those small details, and Aaron’s is no exception.
The third set of figures wear the same shades and style as the one immediately above, but this work is larger, albeit still small enough to hold comfortably in one’s hand. From its description:
Aaron Mirabal (Taos Pueblo) has formed this traditional storyteller out of the Pueblo’s micaceous clay. Grandmother holds two children on her lap while one peers over her left shoulder. All are shown in traditional dress, while Grandmother herself wears her hair in Aaron’s trademark Hopi-style butterfly rolls. Height is 3.5″ (dimensions approximate).
Micaceous clay; paint
$155 + shipping, handling, and insurance
This is the perfect size for an office desk or a windowsill, a way of bringing a bit of traditional culture into one’s everyday routine. And it’s a reminder of the importance of story: of words, of how they are released into the world, of their order and shape and purpose and effects. It’s a reminder of our obligations to them, too, of the need to recount them carefully and accurately, to get the meanings right and relay their teachings with accuracy.
And, of course, of the importance of telling them in the first place.
For the words are like the rain, nurturing seeds, inducing them to grow. Our children deserve to know them, to know all the hope and possibility they hold, to understand their world in ways school can never teach: stories of the water, of the earth and sky.
~ Aji
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